


Clawing My Way to the Top

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-20
Updated: 2005-11-27
Packaged: 2019-01-19 18:08:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12415248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: Rita Skeeter, attractive blonde, twenty-three, and aspiring Daily Prophet reporter, is certain journalism is for her. But with her  job on tenterhooks at the Prophet and one last chance to make it big, Rita begins to consider a few "alternative" methods to getting the scoop.





	1. The Challenge

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

**Authoress's Note** \- This is a little piece I began at Fanfiction.net in January, posted a few chapters of, subsequently abandoned to be finished "later", and now I'm finally attempting to improve and finish it. Hope you enjoy, darlings. 

~Lauren

\-------

  
**Clawing My Way to the Top**  


 

“Skeeter!”� bellowed a loud booming voice. “What do you think you are _doing_?”�

The blonde bespectacled girl sitting at the desk furthest one away from the window jumped a good six inches off her seat as she lifted her head from her desktop. 

“I wasn’t–“

She trailed off as she was met with a red-faced glare and a short clipped, “In my office! Now!”� before the man turned on his heel and proceeded through a door at the far end of the room. 

Clearly, Rita’s boss was in no mood for complete sentences.

She quickly tucked her quill behind her ear and attempted to wipe her ink-stained fingers on her tattered blue robes before hurrying to meet Cerberus himself, fangs and all. 

“Yes, Mr. Harding?”� she asked wearily, standing uncertainly in the doorway of her boss’s spacious office as she had what seemed like hundreds of times before. 

Charles Harding, Editor-in-Chief of _The Daily Prophet_ , was not a man you wanted to cross. One wrong move and you were fired on the spot. Well, in Rita’s case, she had to have at least eight or nine wrong moves tallied up, but Mr. Harding still kept her around. 

Rita was too afraid to ask why. 

Mr. Harding wasn’t too keen on asking questions either, and if you annoyed him or worse, _offended_ him, you’d soon find your name and picture plastered across the front page of _The Prophet_ under the headline “Suspected Death Eater.”�

“Skeeter, sit down,”� growled Mr. Harding, and Rita realized she was still idling, and his face was on the verge of turning purple with frustration. 

She quickly sat, watching tentatively as her boss plucked a sheet of parchment out of a large stack at his left and put his feet up on the mahogany desk. Rita winced inwardly at the overwhelming smell of shoe polish that met her nose, but kept her face carefully blank.

“What is this, Skeeter?”� asked Mr. Harding, waving the sheet of parchment in front of her.

Rita glanced at it and felt a sinking feeling, as if her heart now resided somewhere near her large intestine. She recognized the untidy scrawl that somehow managed to pass as handwriting. 

“I believe that would be my article on the new Mrs. Skower’s All-Purpose Magical Mess-Remover, sir.”� 

“Of course it is! Any idiot can see that!”� he snapped, a vein bulging at his temple. “But where’s the kicker, the spark that’s going to keep people reading? This …”� He held up the parchment between thumb and forefinger and eyed it with disgust, “is pure rubbish.”�

He tore the parchment in half and then set it alight with his wand, purely for dramatic effect of course.

Rita barely blinked as a month’s worth of mind-numbing research disintegrated into ash. “What’d you expect? You gave me _cleaning products_ for Merlin’s sake!”� she muttered a bit too loudly.

“You say something, Skeeter?”� barked Mr. Harding, his bushy gray eyebrows snapping together.

“No, sir,”� she stammered, sweeping the ashes of her article into the wastebasket. “I promise I’ll do better next time, sir. If you just give me one more chance …”�

Mr. Harding sighed and rubbed his forehead; his voice was softer this time but could still be described as a dull roar. 

“Rita, I’ve given you chances before because I think you’ve got something. However, time and time again, you’ve managed to prove me wrong. You need to write something that will intrigue the readers and keep them buying the Prophet. Thus far, your reports have been completely wanting. I’m sorry.”�

Rita sat stoic, hardly believing her ears. “You’re going to fire me because I couldn’t make cleaning products sell?”� she asked fiercely, gripping her chair’s arms, knuckles white.

He stared back at her, his gaze stony. “No, I’m going to fire you if you manage to mess this next one up. You’ve got the spark, Rita, I can feel it. You have three weeks to come up with something mind-blowing, write it, and have it on my desk by six o’clock. Choose any topic you like, get a photographer to help you, just make sure it’s good or …”� He drew his wand across his throat.

“Thank you, sir,”� Rita mumbled, standing up.

“Remember what I said, Skeeter!”� Mr. Harding bellowed as she strode back to her grim, rickety desk. “I’ve fired thousands of little wannabes like you, and I won’t hesitate to do it again!”� 

_Wannabe?_ Rita bristled. Was he challenging her? 

Well a challenge it was, and she’d meet it, or else perhaps she could manage to beg back her job as a cashier at Florean Fortescue’s. 

No, she thought, gritting her teeth. She would not do that again. Three years were bad enough, after which she realized hell actually was a frozen, chocolate-coated wasteland with a cherry on top.


	2. The Mentor

**Authoress's Note** \- Thank you **Lady_Alasse** and **_Queen_Of_Day_Dreams** for your support and encouragement! Onward to chapter two! ~Lauren

\---------

**  
Chapter Two- The Mentor  
**

As soon as her watch hit five-thirty, the end of her workday, Rita shot out of the Daily Prophet office building as if she had an angry herd of centaurs on her tail. She quickly apparated to her flat and--with a slight sigh--murmured the charm to unlock the door. 

Rita stepped inside and tossed her tattered handbag on the kitchen table. With a flick of her wand, the flat illuminated, shining light down on the shabby furniture and general smallness of the flat. 

Of course, Rita didn’t have that strange Muggle lighting, ‘eleckricy’, not many wizards did and only the rather eccentric ones at that. Frankly, Rita thought the whole concept a bit dicey. A bit of wire surrounded by glass creating light? She’d stick to nice safe magic any day rather than something that impossible-sounding, thank you very much. 

She tossed her wand onto the table next to her handbag and surveyed her flat, taking in the dingy walls and grimy floor. She’d worked six years for _this_?

Rita was roused out of her thoughts by a loud bang. She jumped, startled, to see a large gray owl hovering outside her window. She quickly opened the window, muttering, “Daft bird, can't even see there's a bloody pane of glass there ...”�

The owl hooted indignantly as she took the copy of the _Evening Prophet_ from its beak and thrust a few Knuts into the pouch attached to its leg. 

As soon as the owl had flapped back outside, Rita smoothed the newspaper and glanced at the front page. “Three More Disappearances Reported: ‘You-Know-Who’ Suspected”� screamed the title. 

As Rita read the article, she felt a thrill of adrenaline rush through her veins. This was real journalism; this was what Harding wanted. However, how could she, a twenty-something nobody, write front-page material? And in three weeks? 

She sighed and glanced back down at the article again. She noticed the small words ‘by Morwenna Carleton’ written under the title. Now _this_ was a successful female journalist. If only Rita could meet Ms. Carleton and figure out how she got that spark Mr. Harding wanted then …

Interesting. A slight smile curled Rita’s lips. She would prove Mr. Harding wrong and this woman was exactly the person to help her do it.

\---------

The next morning, Rita positively sprang out of bed, eager to get to work for the first time, but soon fell into a sullen mood as she eyed herself critically in the bathroom mirror. Merlin, she looked like a wreck.

Her blouse and skirt were terribly wrinkled; she never had mastered that Ironing Charm ... She had a better chance of setting her clothes on fire than actually getting them to look somewhat presentable. 

To top things off, her skin was deathly pale from so many years spent indoors at her desk. If she ever did get to be a well-paid journalist, the first thing she’d ask for was an assignment outside in the sun. And the bags under her eyes! Twenty-three year old's did _not_ have permanently tired looks, but Rita did. 

I look like a vampire! Rita thought vengefully. 

Not that there was anything wrong with vampires. A few of them worked on the same floor as Rita at the Daily Prophet. They were usually quite nice and charming, when they weren’t staring at your neck and smiling to themselves. She could be around one of them if they remembered to keep their fangs to themselves. 

Tossing her blonde hair, Rita gave herself a final look in the mirror before deciding to hell with it and apparating to the _Daily Prophet_ lobby. 

She stepped up to the main desk and spoke to the raven-haired Welcome Witch, "Hello, I’m Rita Skeeter, level six. Would it be possible for you to tell me where Ms. Morwenna Carleton’s office is?”�

The woman directed her to level two, third hallway on her left. Rita apparated to the second level of the building and found herself face to face with another desk, this one occupied by a plump, brown-haired receptionist. 

Rita cleared her throat after more the minute of not being acknowledged, and the receptionist asked in a slightly bored tone, “How can I help you, Miss ... ?“

“Skeeter,”� Rita supplied. “I was wondering if it would be possible for me to speak with Ms. Morwenna Carleton.”� 

The receptionist slowly looked up at her, taking in her wrinkled clothes and pallid skin. “Do you have an appointment with Ms. Carleton? It’s common knowledge that she doesn’t like to be disturbed during work hours.”� 

“Ah … yes, I do have an appointment!”� Rita lied quickly, noticing the sheet of parchment on the receptionist’s desk labeled ‘Daily Appointments.’ “Though I believe my boss scheduled it under her own name.”� She frantically tried to read the parchment upside down without looking obvious about doing it. “I’m sorry, I’m new here, so her name may be a little garbled. I believe its Meara Re … Ren … Reno ...”�

“Oh do you mean Meara Renovo?”� asked the receptionist, glancing down at the sheet of parchment. 

“Yes that’s it!”� said Rita, relieved. “Now should I go right in or wait here-“

“Oh, but it says here your boss’s appointment was cancelled,”� said the receptionist, scrutinizing her scrawled handwriting.

“Well ... erm … my boss was called to a meeting with Mr. Harding, so Ms. Renovo sent me instead,”� she began, squirming uncomfortably. “I could have sworn she mentioned sending an owl to Ms. Carleton, but sometimes Ms. Renovo gets a little … absentminded.”� 

“Ah,”� said the receptionist shortly, not sounding very convinced. “Well I suppose you can go in.”� She motioned to the oak door behind her. “Mind you, keep the meeting short; Ms. Carleton’s very busy.”� 

Rita nodded and quietly walked over, opening the door silently. 

She was blinded by an array of bright sunlight shining into the large oak-paneled office. A slender blonde in her mid-thirties was scribbling away furiously at the highly polished desk. 

The woman continued writing as she said, without glancing up, “Oriana, is that my morning tea? Just sent it on the desk. Did you remember …”� Morwenna trailed off as she looked up to see not her receptionist, but a bespectacled blonde stranger in her office. “You’re not Oriana,”� she said curtly. “Get out of my office.”� 

“I’m very sorry, Ms. Carleton. I didn’t mean to intrude, but I need some advice,”� said Rita rapidly, wringing in her hands. 

“Fine then,”� said Morwenna, motioning to the chair in front of her desk. “You have five minutes.”� She glanced purposely at the dusty grandfather clock in the corner. 

“Alright, well, I’m Rita Skeeter. I’ve worked here for two and a half years as one of the struggling ‘wannabes' who reports directly to the Editor-in-Chief. I’ve yet to have anything published, except this tiny bit on some nutter who was an alternate for the Tutshill Tornadoes and was selling potions made of the team’s toenail clippings on the black market. Disgusting if you ask me, but that’s beside the point. I-“

“Wait a minute, stop right there,”� said Morwenna, holding up a hand. “You mean to tell me that you’ve worked two and a half years for 'Hard-Arse' Harding without publishing anything worthwhile, and he’s still kept you around?”�

Rita nodded, unsure what else to do. 

“Wow, either he thinks you’ve got some sort of hidden potential, or ol’ Hardy’s gone soft,”� Morwenna quipped. “Very interesting. Continue.”�

“Erm ... where was I? Ah, yes, I now have one last chance to write something brilliant for Harding, or else my arse is fired. He says I need the spark that keeps people reading. You’re writing front-page news on ‘You-Know-Who’! Can you help me?”� Rita pulled a tiny filing case out of her purse and enlarged it with a wave of her wand. “I have copies of all of my articles right here.”� 

“Ah, let’s see,”� said Morwenna, taking the filing case. She skimmed over every article Rita had ever written in about ten minutes flat. “These are good, these are actually very good. Well, maybe the most recent cleaning products one not so much,”� she added as an afterthought, handing the case back to Rita. “I’m just going to give you one bit of advice, Rita. You have to be less focused on the truth and honesty of your article.”� 

“But isn’t that what people are looking for?”� asked Rita, confused. “The truth?”� 

“ _No_!”� said Morwenna so loudly that Rita jumped a foot off her seat. “And you know why? Because, more often than not, the truth is boring. Completely and utterly boring. You know what people want? Scandal, dark secrets, hidden skeletons coming out of closets, heartbreak, jealousy, betrayal! Did it sound like I mentioned truth or honesty anywhere in there?”� 

Rita shook her head.

“Exactly. You let that sink in and come back to me when you think you’ve got something.”� Morwenna waved carelessly at the door. “I have to have this article on Albus Dumbledore being appointed to the Wizengamot on Harding’s desk by five o’clock. Good day.”�

“Thank you for the advice, Ms. Carleton,”� said Rita, standing up. 

“Call me Morwenna,”� said the woman, shaking Rita's hand. “And, Rita?”�

“Yes?”�

“Good luck. Blow us all away.”�


End file.
